Well, I'll be a flop-eared mule.
In the McConaughey family, we have very few holiday traditions. We do the tree and the gift-giving, of course, but to call us unorthodox may be a bit of an understatement. We get a little bit ornery and a little bit restless. Out of my thirty-six years, I have always celebrated Christmas in Texas, and I don't know what I think I'm going to miss, because it's the same every year. It always starts the same way, with both of my brothers showing up at Mama's approximately two hours after the time they were designated to arrive. They promptly ask me about the latest rumors they've heard on Inside Edition and I tell them that yes, I really did tell People magazine that I haven't worn deodorant in twenty years and no, Penelope and I are not going to get married despite what you read in Star magazine. After we have dinner and after Mama goes to bed, my brothers and I head out to the barn where we proceed to get sloppy drunk off of embarrassing amounts of whiskey and, instead of reminiscing about the Good Old Days or passing out like every other lush in the world, we go down to this little creek behind the farm and start shooting things with Pop's old twenty gage shotgun.
Just wait, it gets worse.
Something will happen. Somebody will say something. Rooster will turn to me and say something like, "Hey, Matthew, why are you the only person in this family that isn't a republican?" Or Patrick will fall over and knock me down. Or Pat and I will get the clever idea to toss Roost into the creek. Then we start fighting. By fighting, I don't mean hollering until we're hoarse, I mean we start beating the holy hell out of each other. When I was something like twenty or twenty-one, we had to wake Pop up to drive us to the emergency room because Pat had somehow dislocated my shoulder and we were all still too drunk to drive anywhere. It's barbaric and I know it, but it's Christmas, and it's always something that I count on. In the end, we're usually too uncoordinated to get anything but a few scrapes and bruises, and in the morning, it's always hilarious. But that didn't mean that I wanted him to see it.
In the end, the thought of not having him around was less conceivable than letting him see all my crazy at once. That's probably the cardinal rule of all relationships. You have to let them see your cuckoo side in little fragments, because a full dosage could be lethal. He didn't run away, though. I like that. Of course, the time I generally reserve for getting my face punched in was instead filled with other things: actually letting someone see the family photo albums, showing him my childhood room which Mama has kept exactly the same, letting my brothers regale him with tales of my adolescent misadventures. It was nice, even if he does now know all my dirty little secrets.
After that, it was Jersey. I white-knuckled my way through introductions. Once upon a time someone told me that I leave very good first impressions. I still doubt the verity, but maybe that just comes from becoming more and more insecure with old age. No really. You should have seen the wreck that I became when I found my first gray hair. I got a speeding ticket on my way to the drug store to pick up a box of Just For Men. It was a rough time for me. But I've digressed. The thing about Christmas is that it's now basically impossible for me not to associate it with a fat man in a red suit bouncing all over Toys R Us commercials instead of, you know, the birth of Jesus Christ. This is the first time I've ever really known people that celebrate Hanukkah, and I don't know, it's nice because it's not completely taken over by commercialism and it's more about family and the celebration of a really important event of a people and not how many gifts you got this year. It was nice to be a part of that and it was nice to get to really see the non-surface parts of him.
I shouldn't have to tell you how I spent New Year's Eve and Day. They say that what you do on New Year's indicates how the rest of your year will be. I usually spend it working, drinking champagne out of a dixie cup and getting back to business, but I have a hunch that this year, my priorities have been completely realigned. And I like it. And I trust it so much that I didn't even bother with the black-eyed peas. I've already got an over-abundance of luck. I'm not sure what I would do with anymore of it.
In other news, promos for Failure To Launch have been released. I look too tan and I think Sarah probably deserves an Academy Award for suffering my hands all over her. In the last month, I have also saved a little girl from a wolf and apparently broken my collarbone in a surfing accident in Costa Rica although I didn't look too injured last night. I bet my lifeguard was unfortunately never on Baywatch and someone made a Matthew McConaughey speech dictionary, and I am now more sure than ever that God has a sense of humor.
TEXAS WON THE ROSE BOWL!
Okay, the end, I have a couple of drawers to fill and dinner on the Siene.
Just wait, it gets worse.
Something will happen. Somebody will say something. Rooster will turn to me and say something like, "Hey, Matthew, why are you the only person in this family that isn't a republican?" Or Patrick will fall over and knock me down. Or Pat and I will get the clever idea to toss Roost into the creek. Then we start fighting. By fighting, I don't mean hollering until we're hoarse, I mean we start beating the holy hell out of each other. When I was something like twenty or twenty-one, we had to wake Pop up to drive us to the emergency room because Pat had somehow dislocated my shoulder and we were all still too drunk to drive anywhere. It's barbaric and I know it, but it's Christmas, and it's always something that I count on. In the end, we're usually too uncoordinated to get anything but a few scrapes and bruises, and in the morning, it's always hilarious. But that didn't mean that I wanted him to see it.
In the end, the thought of not having him around was less conceivable than letting him see all my crazy at once. That's probably the cardinal rule of all relationships. You have to let them see your cuckoo side in little fragments, because a full dosage could be lethal. He didn't run away, though. I like that. Of course, the time I generally reserve for getting my face punched in was instead filled with other things: actually letting someone see the family photo albums, showing him my childhood room which Mama has kept exactly the same, letting my brothers regale him with tales of my adolescent misadventures. It was nice, even if he does now know all my dirty little secrets.
After that, it was Jersey. I white-knuckled my way through introductions. Once upon a time someone told me that I leave very good first impressions. I still doubt the verity, but maybe that just comes from becoming more and more insecure with old age. No really. You should have seen the wreck that I became when I found my first gray hair. I got a speeding ticket on my way to the drug store to pick up a box of Just For Men. It was a rough time for me. But I've digressed. The thing about Christmas is that it's now basically impossible for me not to associate it with a fat man in a red suit bouncing all over Toys R Us commercials instead of, you know, the birth of Jesus Christ. This is the first time I've ever really known people that celebrate Hanukkah, and I don't know, it's nice because it's not completely taken over by commercialism and it's more about family and the celebration of a really important event of a people and not how many gifts you got this year. It was nice to be a part of that and it was nice to get to really see the non-surface parts of him.
I shouldn't have to tell you how I spent New Year's Eve and Day. They say that what you do on New Year's indicates how the rest of your year will be. I usually spend it working, drinking champagne out of a dixie cup and getting back to business, but I have a hunch that this year, my priorities have been completely realigned. And I like it. And I trust it so much that I didn't even bother with the black-eyed peas. I've already got an over-abundance of luck. I'm not sure what I would do with anymore of it.
In other news, promos for Failure To Launch have been released. I look too tan and I think Sarah probably deserves an Academy Award for suffering my hands all over her. In the last month, I have also saved a little girl from a wolf and apparently broken my collarbone in a surfing accident in Costa Rica although I didn't look too injured last night. I bet my lifeguard was unfortunately never on Baywatch and someone made a Matthew McConaughey speech dictionary, and I am now more sure than ever that God has a sense of humor.
TEXAS WON THE ROSE BOWL!
Okay, the end, I have a couple of drawers to fill and dinner on the Siene.